Midway

Mild, for a summer solstice, the day began to cool before it faded, and the crescent moon emerged already sinking into the tops of the pines. The year is downhill now, coasting through heat toward that splash of color to come when the trees are worn and ready to shed the weight they've borne, to free their bones again to chilled air. Trees don't shiver with cold, but summer sometimes makes them crack and shatter.

This time of year I always listen for that loud snap that precedes the deep, ground-trembling thump when some old oak has dropped a big branch. So far this year none nearby have done so, but it's apt to happen. In the meantime I appreciate the quiet once night has fallen, and enjoy the glittering of those stars the trees don't hide. The breaking remains aloof, for how long I don't know. I know that I will share the relief when October lets the forest sigh again.


( Sunday Verse )